


Cold Feet

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Conditions, Medical Procedures, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-21 12:06:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30021519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: Cold feet:Literally, the sensation of cool or cold lower extremities.Metaphorically, the apprehension, doubt, or feelings of anxiety specifically when considering a future event.Conceivably, a person could have both types of cold feet simultaneously.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	Cold Feet

"Would you like me to wait on the line with you until they arrive?" The voice in John's ear, coming from the mobile clasped tightly, was succinct.

John wanted nothing more than to hurry the process along and that did not involve talking or listening to someone who couldn't help. "No." The word was clipped through his clenched teeth. "That won't be necessary."

"Call back if the ambulance hasn't arrived in ten minutes. My computer shows that they are between four and five minutes away."

"Thanks."

John disconnected, paced to the door to unlock it, paced to the window to pull back the curtain, keeping half an eye on Sherlock, who was far too serious, far too pale, sitting stiffly on the couch. "Lean forward on your elbows if you want, that might help." He could have referred to it as the tripod position if he'd been asked. He lamented the dearth of rescue supplies in the flat. This couldn’t be fixed by what they’d needed in the past (sutures, pain meds, dressings, or elastic bandages). What he needed now was more complicated and not for home use - oxygen, monitoring, IV supplies, and a bloody hospital pharmacy.

Pulling in a quiet breath, Sherlock didn't respond verbally but did follow John's direction briefly, shifting as he tried to ease his symptoms. It lasted only a moment before he restlessly returned to his previous leaned back position.

"They'll be here soon," John said quietly, as much to himself as to Sherlock. _They'd better hurry._

++

Meanwhile, he cursed all the little things that had led to this moment. Hindsight. The things he'd not seen, the details Sherlock had withheld, the nuances of illness brewing just under the surface that, although they'd eluded him, seemed obvious now all put together. In Sherlock's voice in his brain, _As always, you see but do not observe._

_[Shut up Sherlock.]_

John would have chuckled, arguing with his own inner monologue and Sherlock's arrogant self. This was not a giggling-at-a-crime scene moment and he quickly re-centered. Unfortunately, this had the potential to deteriorate into something much worse, because he hadn't noticed. He hadn't bloody noticed.

Because he hadn't really paid enough attention to his flatmate.

Who'd been winded after climbing the stairs a few days previously, blamed it on the weather.

He'd taken a short shower and then a nap afterward, blaming it on not sleeping well.

He'd been pale, darker than usual rings under his eyes over paler than usual facial colour.

He'd coughed a few times, not his usual morning post-smoking hack, blamed it on John's withholding cigarettes.

Less energy. Less sniping. Less confrontation.

More resting, more quiet, choosing his position upright (High Fowler's), more working to breathe, now that he thought back over it.

They'd taken a cab rather than walked on one of their usual errands. That excuse, he'd snarkily pinned on John's advanced age and then abruptly changed the subject to something even more distracting. A red herring - and John had taken the piss. And although John couldn't recall it precisely, he was fairly certain it had involved food.

John'd even caught him a few days before with his hand over his sternum, not quite Levine's sign but close, had asked if he was all right. Sherlock'd snorted, immediately pulled his hand off his chest, then puffed a short indignant laugh, and assured him he was fine. John had gone so far as to grab at his wrist, ostensibly to check his pulse, and Sherlock had pulled away quickly.

John had fallen for the deception, the projection, the focus change, every single time.

Until this latest escapade when it became unavoidable.

++

Distantly, he craned his neck and his proverbial ears, listening for the tell-tale sirens, the arrival of help, the medical responsibility shifting so that John didn't shoulder it completely alone. Given the usual traffic, he knew it would even be long minutes between when he first heard them and when they arrived on Baker Street. Since there was nothing else to do, nothing else to occupy him, he perched on the edge of the couch. "They'll be here soon," he breathed again. "And then ..."

"Just, stop," Sherlock whispered, his voice quieter and tighter than usual, slightly high pitched with anxiety and laboured breathing.

Commandingly, John grabbed at his wrist to check his pulse again. He didn't need to count officially to recognise that it was very rapid, at least one-forty. He tapped his mobile to watch the seconds count down, and by the time he'd counted off ten and done the math, he was not reassured to know that he was right. One hundred and forty four, to be exact. "Pain still there?"

Pale blue eyes reconnected with his, and despite his earlier feisty statement, he did nod just a little, the worry showing back through.

John left his hand where it was, over Sherlock's wrist. His _cool, pale, slightly clammy wrist_.

The fact that Sherlock didn't pull away, that he didn't resist or insist he was fine, that he permitted John's touch, his monitoring, was completely uncharacteristic. He himself was worried. And in that, John found _downright frightening._

++

The insomnia was nothing new. Sherlock had warned him early on that his sleep patterns were irregular. That he didn't need much sleep. That he worked at all hours when the mood struck.

These last few days, perhaps a week now, he'd been more restless than usual. And so was John, just hearing the movement about the flat during the nights.

Rosie, at nearly eleven, was off at a programme through her school, an academic immersion camp experience where her efforts at science had won her the award, a spot on the trip with one of her teachers and a few other area students. The programme was three weeks duration, and so far she'd only been gone half that. They'd agreed on a regular evening text message exchange, and that too had been working. She was enjoying herself, making new friends, and 'not missing you at all papa.' This was followed by a winky emoticon.

While John did miss her, he also enjoyed not having to share the room with her, not that she was a problem, but it was a nice change. They'd erected a divider of sorts, two dressers down the room center which effectively split it, and they'd grown quite accustomed to co-habitating. It had worked for so long that neither of them minded it. It just was.

So with Rosie away, John had been able to move about himself more freely, stay up later, spend some evenings reading, keeping the lights on more, listening to some of his favourite music later in the evening. So he'd heard Sherlock's even more erratic sleep patterns, noise at all hours. And could peripherally see that he was tired, more fatigued, less likely to bound restlessly around the flat at night, definitely less likely to go out of late - when being cooped up typically would make him stir crazy. He'd begged off on a case when Greg had rang with the offer, and he'd blamed it on the case being beneath him, and he wasn't that bored. Upon hanging up, he'd curled up on the couch in a strop. He'd then blamed John, Mrs. Hudson, the abysmal skill of the police department, and the dearth of admirable crimes throughout all of London.

None of the things had been that unusual, or so John'd thought. Until he put them all together.

++

"That's it. I'm calling an ambulance."

"Don't you dare."

Shamelessly, John took advantage of Sherlock's shortness of breath and turned his back while he'd spoken to the dispatch, explained the symptoms, given their address.

Until that moment, the afternoon had also been a run of the mill sort, with the both of them puttering around until John put on a movie. He'd enjoyed it, but Sherlock had been less engaged than usual and, sulking, managed to fall asleep.

Only to wake up gasping, short of breath, his hand over his chest again, this time his eyes wide and his breathing abnormally deep and very definitely laboured. Perspiration dotted his forehead, his temples. It had actually scared them both, and Sherlock had not fought back when John felt his pulse. "Your heart's absolutely racing."

"I know." The sneered 'obviously' that he didn't tack on to the sentence was implied in the tone.

John could feel his jaws clench, his radar on high alert, his protectiveness kick in to overdrive. "How long's this been going on, then, hmm?"

"A week. Maybe a little ..." and he inhaled, exhaled uncomfortably, looking away from John's irritation, "... longer. Maybe."

"It wakes you, these breathless attacks?" In answer Sherlock closed his eyes, the frown of his eyebrows admitting that it had. "You didn't think maybe to mention it?" John let go of his wrist and strode briskly to where he kept his medical bag, removed his stethoscope, spent a few minutes listening. Erb's point. Sherlock's precordial chest. "Irregularly irregular. And very fast." He listened to other areas, finding both lungs clear despite the shallow effort.

"So?" Sherlock had actually been cooperative, another alarm bell had begun ringing at the back of John's head. "Irregular. What's that mean?"

"It means we're heading to A&E. Probably new onset afib." John had prevented further conversation, taking his mobile, pressing 999.

++

"Thank god, there they are." Both of them could hear, off in the distance, the bi-phasic two-toned siren of the approaching ambulance. "I'm going to go meet them soon as they are parked." Quiet, wide-eyed, Sherlock nodded, somehow managing to cling with his gaze. "You'll be okay." Those eyes, pale, cool, pupils dilated in fear, closed. John squeezed a little tighter on Sherlock's hand. Sherlock squeezed back. "I'll be right back up," he said finally, hearing the brakes, the ambulance shift into park, and several doors slamming.

The crew, businesslike, professional, gathering equipment, heart monitor, emergency medications, supplies. "Call for an ambulance sir?" one of them asked.

"Yes."

"For yourself?"

John knew they'd probably seen it all and had to ask. "No. Flatmate."

"Upstairs?"

"Yes."

"Conscious, breathing, talking?"

"Yes." John launched just barely one sentence of a report that began with 'forty-two year old male in otherwise good health with new onset palpitations and shortness of breath.'

"You're medical." the medic in charge commented, pleasant, a small knowing smile about his face.

"Physician."

"Keep going," he offered as they began to follow John upstairs.

"New onset - newish onset anyway - afib, probably."

"Chest pain?"

"Yes, some. Hard to tell. Breathless. He's ..."

 _"Oh for god's sake, John,"_ came the hiss of words as they entered the sitting room.

"... not very forthcoming."

_"This is not necessary."_

One of the medics stared right back at him, standing quite still, one hand on his hip and the other held out calmly to silence the rest of the room. Unrushed, he spoke. "Sure. We'll turn right around then. No problem." _I'll call your bluff._ Despite his words, he didn't move. He watched Sherlock watch him back, an eye-contact showdown. "We'll just go then?"

The silence hung heavy, men focused on Sherlock's reaction, his obvious internal deliberation and inner conflict. 

Gentler, he continued, patiently, "How about, you know, since we're already here, we have a look." With a great deal of assertiveness and assured self-awareness, he gestured toward Sherlock, waiting for some sort of acknowledgement. "Because, just being honest, if this is your usual state of health," and he used air quotes on that last word, "you should probably get checked out by your own primary physician. Soon."

"Fine." Though the tone and the delivery and the attitude seemed to imply that it was anything but.

There were a few painful minutes of questions and bristling, vague, irritated answers.

John finally intervened. "Sherlock, you really need ..."

"Shut up. I'm sorry my answers are unsatisfactory."

"You're not helping." He spoke low and urgently. "In fact, you're hindering things by withholding evidence." Another eye-roll. "It's important, their questions. So again," and he touched on the medic's last question. "Are you having sensation of pain in your chest, arm, jaw, or shoulder?"

With jaw-clenching reluctance, Sherlock seemed to surrender, "Not pain exactly." With a sheepish glance at the room before looking down at his hands, he added, "Pressure."

"All right." The medics worked together, then, having already checked vital signs, pulse oximetry. "Heart's racing a bit there," the medic observed, watching the signal average and bounce around between readings of one-fifty and one-eighty. "Health history?" Gesturing at John, Sherlock seemed a little more uncomfortable, shifting about as he sat on the couch, trying to catch his breath. John gave a short synopsis of Sherlock's thankfully short health history. The pulse oximeter blipped a few times at ninety percent, having trouble getting an accurate number with the rapid rate. The blood pressure was tricky as well, and the man obtaining it held up a finger as he listened intently, pumping the manual cuff up again several times in order to hear it.

"Seventies over forties." John cast a worried glance as Sherlock moaned at the words.

"You're heading to the hospital, mate."

"No." He considered the people staring back at him stupidly, so he breathed it again, more emphatically. _"No."_

"You know, here I thought you were supposed to be a genius." Sherlock's brow raised in curiosity, and the man offered a lopsided smile. "I know who you are. Lived in this city a long time, read about your ... adventures. On Dr. Watson's blog."

"Heaven help us all, I certainly hope you read academic, non-whimsical material too. I had hoped perhaps you were smarter than that."

The medic wasn't rattled and engaged head on, parrying immediately. "Same, back at you. Obviously something isn't right here, your body is trying to tell you. Probably has _been_ trying to tell you. Ignoring it isn't smart, Mr. Holmes. Are you listening now?" Faintly, Sherlock pursed his lips, annoyed, but then nodded in unhappy understanding. "I'm starting an IV before we transport, you need some fluids, perhaps other meds if we need. Draw some blood."

"I want John to do it."

John was quick to emphatically - and calmly - veto that. "No. These guys do it all day, every day. I'm a bit rustier than that."

Their conversation was derailed as the medic shushed them to unbutton Sherlock's dress shirt to fully apply the heart monitor, slide an oxygen cannula under his nose, and then check another blood pressure. All of them, Sherlock included, watched the ECG tracing, the upright spikes of his very rapid complexes narrow and a bit random in spacing and configuration.

John said it first, identifying the rhythm that he'd suspected, but there was no satisfaction in being right. "Atrial fib." John was somewhat reassured - only a little - that it was indeed narrow complexed and not ventricular in origin. John knew that it was fast. Really fast. No wonder Sherlock wasn't feeling well, had no energy, and couldn't catch his breath.

The lead medic nodded with John's assessment and unzipped one of the equipment bags for supplies. "And your symptoms started when, exactly?"

"Week or so," Sherlock breathed quietly, his eyes a little glassy. "Maybe longer. Off and on." Pausing a moment to glance at John, who met his gaze, he amended his statement. "Mostly on."

A repeat blood pressure remained low, and within a few minutes, the IV was placed. John couldn't help but deliberately and intentionally take a look at the shape of Sherlock's arms, noting no recent use or abuse. The medic drew a bouquet of lab specimen tubes, opened up a bag of IV fluids, and the men packaged Sherlock onto the portable stretcher despite his fussing and fretting that he could bloody well walk down the stairs and that they were being ridiculously overcautious control freaks.

"You riding along, Dr. Watson?"

"Yes, please, just need a minute to grab --"

He was already being shooed away. "Go. It'll take us a minute to load him anyway."

Into a small duffel bag, John threw both mobiles with chargers, the extra long charging cable, Sherlock's tablet, a bottle of water (for him), and in case this turned into an overnight stay, a pair of Sherlock's folded pyjamas, slippers, and preferred brushes (tooth and hair) from the bathroom. Down kerbside, he found Sherlock a little more anxious and vigorously complaining that he needed to sit up more, that all their unnecessary antics were making him winded.

"Oi," John said, attempting to run interference, "just stop. Don't blame them. You can't catch your breath because of what's going on." To the medics, he began to ask if he could sit up higher but they were already taking care of that. "They'll get you sorted at Barts." The crew efficiently bolted him in, directed John to the jump seat, shut both back doors, and radioed to the hospital that they were on their way. The lights bounced about on the street, reflecting in pulsations through the window, and the siren was somewhat echoey and muted from inside the back of the ambulance.

The driver called to the back, asking about pulse oximetry readings, and relayed the results (still in the low nineties and high eighties), then directed the orders to the medic in the rear, "We're going to Bay Four when we get there. Said try a non-rebreather, fifteen liters, if you need."

The mask was applied with some relief, if nothing else to muffle Sherlock's complaining. John couldn't decide if watching the chaotic monitored rhythm was helpful or only making him more worried. Sherlock did in fact stop fussing, but John found that even more concerning in that it was obvious he was not feeling well.

++

The A&E was busy. They'd been shuffled into a room, seen by various practitioners there, been assured that he wasn't suffering any myocardial damage according to both electrocardiography and isoenzyme assay results. A liter of IV fluids improved his blood pressure enough for the physician to order an IV infusion of medication to help control the atrial fibrillation. A few hours later, the pair was delivered to a small, private room a few floors above. He was stable enough not to need a bed in the ICU, but still assigned a room with a hard-wired heart monitor within the stepdown unit.

"Feel free to leave," Sherlock muttered once the long, tedious, boring - so Sherlock had insisted - admission process had been completed, with one of the nurses asking multiple questions and trying to efficiently elicit correct and uneditorialised answers from Sherlock. John did his best - and mostly succeeded - in letting Sherlock give the information. He supplemented only when absolutely necessary.

Swallowing hard, John tried not to stare at the monitor or the IV or even at Sherlock. "I can stay for a little. You know, Rosie's -- " and he wriggled his fingers, indicating gone and away.

"Suit yourself." Trying to act annoyed, Sherlock made an attempt to pull the covers up to his chin and turn on his side away from where John stood but caught the IV tubing in the process. The gasp of discomfort and alarm almost instantly set John on edge.

On his feet instantly, John helped him untangle, pulling up the covers for him and freeing the IV from where it had snagged in Sherlock's patient trappings. From there, he eyed up the heart monitor, telling Sherlock that some improvements had been made in rate, but that it was still irregular. He was just relating that his blood pressure was up in part because the rate had slowed and the fluids had infused when Sherlock held up an annoyed hand.

"Just ... stop trying so hard."

"Trying ... what?"

"You might as well just go. I have no desire to ..." He paused, hissing unhappily through his teeth. "No really. There's no need."

"I don't mind," John began.

Interrupting, Sherlock closed his eyes. "I'm just not feeling like very good company."

"You don't need to entertain me." John eased back into the chair, pressed his hand over Sherlock's below where the IV rested in what he hoped was a settling gesture, keeping it longer than brief, making sure Sherlock was well aware of the warmth of John's skin, the statement of his presence. He thought that perhaps Sherlock wanted less talking. "And you're seldom good company." The spontaneous - although fleeting - smile on Sherlock's face seemed more normal then, and John sat for a few minutes before pulling out his mobile.

"Don't text my brother," Sherlock mumbled, knowing from behind closed eyelids and without directly looking, what John was doing.

"I'm surprised he isn't already here. And no, of course I'm not texting him. As if he'd make this - or you - any more enjoyable."

The evening grew later and John wrote his mobile number on the white board in the room, not for Sherlock of course, but in case it was needed from anyone else, before opting to leave. "I'll come back if --" He drew a smiley face under his number, which made them both snicker albeit weakly. "Not quite like home."

"You should go," Sherlock said, his tone flat.

John acknowledged the truth of Sherlock's direction along with his own response, that he really didn't want to leave.

"I'm fine."

Purposeful steps approached the door, slowing slightly, then there was a brusque rap followed by a voice. "Mr. Holmes?" A pert little blonde stood in the doorway, long crisp lab coat, high tech Littman stethoscope. "I'm Dr. Richards. _Allison._ " She nodded at them both. "I'm your cardiologist. Family?" she asked in John's direction, looking between them.

"John Watson. Nice to meet you."

"Partner," Sherlock clarified, a brow raised and his tone tight. John wasn't sure if he was daring John to contradict him or daring the physician to comment on it.

She didn't miss a beat. "I read over your history already. Thought I'd come by, take a look and listen, explain the plan." Her targeted assessment took only a few minutes and included a few housekeeping questions about his symptoms.

"Well?" Sherlock said, his tone impatient and already skeptical.

Without a hesitation, nonplussed, she studied the monitor again, pressing a few buttons to view the trends, the alarms, his history of blood pressures since being admitted. "So you're still in atrial fibrillation. It's a common problem, where the upper and lower chambers of the heart --"

"John's a physician. You can skip the low level explanation."

Her smile was genuine, despite the late hour and the prickly condescension of the patient's tone. "Okay then, great. You can explain it to me." Owlish, Sherlock blinked at her, taken quite by surprise at her statement that turned tables back on him. "Why is it dangerous?"

Hoping to be discreet, impressed with her engagement, John brushed a hand over his chin to hide the small smirk. Sherlock's eye narrowed in concentration as he searched for a knowledgeable answer. "Too fast. Poor cardiac output. Activity intolerance." He kept his phrases brief as his mind kept moving, offering other suggestions when she didn't commend him for his brilliance. "Oxygen delivery."

"All true, but not explaining the dangerous aspect." She smiled in conspiracy, glancing at John before continuing, pausing long enough that either of them could have spoken. "Incomplete emptying of the left atrial appendage can lead to clot formation." She hesitated long enough for Sherlock to dart a quick look at John, catch his smirk, and scowl in response before turning attention back to the doctor. "It's a boot-shaped part that, because the upper chambers are more quivering than pumping," and she demonstrated with her hand, fingers down, chaotically wriggling, "it doesn't empty completely. Stagnant blood can form a clot."

Sherlock connected the dots and provided the solution. "Stroke risk," he offered.

"Exactly." She gestured at the monitor again and angled it so he could see it better, pointing to the top two green lines of Sherlock's ECG tracing, which was bouncing around in the low one-hundreds. "The rate is much improved with the diltiazem you're on. How are you feeling now, compared to earlier?"

"Somewhat better. The breathing I mean." John was glad to hear it, agreeing that Sherlock's breathing was less laboured, though certainly not yet normal. He was, more importantly to John, overall less distressed. 

"Good," she affirmed. "Pain?" He shook his head no. "So your blood pressure is better because you're pumping blood more efficiently. But in order to get you back in regular rhythm, normal sinus rhythm, we have a couple of options. First of all, an echocardiogram to see if there's visible clot. That's usually done in conjunction with an endoscopy, a tube into the oesophagus that you swallow, which ..."

 _"What?"_ His eyes were large, and he was definitely not expecting her explanation.

"It's a simple procedure where ..."

"Hmmm, no."

"Beg pardon?" she tried to clarify at his refusal.

"No _thanks_."

"Sherlock." John chided lightly from the bedside.

"You'll get ample sedation, and you won't remember any of it."

"What part of no --" Sherlock's stubborn words were interrupted by the quick placement of John's hand on his shoulder. A stony glare went from the man in the bed to the one sitting close by, and although John resisted the urge to dig his fingernails into Sherlock's muscle there, he thought about it. Loudly. "Go ahead," he said finally, petulant.

"Most people actually convert on their own without treatment. For a small number of people, it's permanent, but I don't think that will be the case for you. Many need what's called a cardioversion, a small amount of energy that restores the rhythm by breaking the chaotic cycle and letting the SA node - sinoatrial - the typical pacemaker of the heart, take over again."

"Take over. You make it sound as if it's staged a mutiny." His words were disgruntled and unhappy.

"It kind of has. The safest way to proceed is to start a medication, an anticoagulant in IV form, which I've already ordered for you, called heparin. It prevents more clot from forming while we wait. Then once we are assured there's no clot, while you're still sedated, we can cardiovert you back into rhythm."

Sherlock found something interesting to stare at along the foot of his bed, so John sought clarification. "So you're talking heparin tonight? The ... endoscopy when, tomorrow?" She nodded. "Cardioversion at the same time?"

"I'll have to add him to the schedule, but yes."

"Unless there's a clot." Sherlock looked up at that, displeased at the entire idea, the plan. "Isn't there just some ... medication that would work?"

"We do have one, but you're not a candidate for it because you've been in this rhythm too long."

"But if it would work, isn't that better?"

"It might work. It's a great med called adenosine, and it might give you a few seconds pause and then sinus rhythm would resume."

"Perfect."

"And along with the sinus rhythm, this left atrial appendage finally gets to empty. And as it empties, it fires out this potential clot that's been there forming for the last few weeks. Which could lodge any number of places to wreak havoc." She let that sink in. "As I said, you're not a candidate for that. Anything over ... forty eight to seventy two hours, and the risk goes up for stroke. It's an unacceptable risk."

None of them speak out loud that, had the symptoms been reported immediately, the less invasive medication option might have been an option for him.

Dr. Richards looked back and forth between them. "So, we were talking about if there is a clot," and she waited until they both nodded, back on track in the discussion, "we keep the heparin on for another day while we start one of the oral meds, then if you stay in afib, we bring you back in thirty days and do another endoscopy and cardioversion then." 

"How successful is it, given his age and such?" John asked, knowing that Sherlock would wonder too.

"About eighty, eighty-five percent."

"A twenty percent _fail_ rate?" Sherlock asked, as if that was entirely unacceptable.

"There are some other medication options we would explore. Or a procedure called an ablation. Or a watchman device if it recurs intermittently." With a reassuring smile, she redirected them. "One day at a time. Like I said, usually this fixes itself. The medications can then prevent a recurrence. The cardioversion only if needed. The rest is a conversation for a future day."

"I'm a little young for ... heart problems."

She acknowledged his concern with a nod. "Not always. Are you a smoker?" She chuckled a little as he glanced uncertainly over at John, the guilt showing plainly in his expression. "No, the truth. Not what he wants to hear."

"Which is the truth, by the way." Under his breath, John made sure to remind him.

"Yes."

"How many a day?"

"Sometimes none." When silence had gone on to the point of prompting him for the rest of the answer, he shrugged, trying to downplay it. "Less than half a pack I suppose, but it's not ..."

One of the nurses came into the room then pushing a medication cart. "Heparin for you." She held up some IV supplies. "And a new site, this medication isn't compatible with the one you're already getting."

Sherlock seemed to be waiting for one of them to laugh, admit they were just kidding, and get on with it. When she snapped on gloves and unrolled a tourniquet, he protested. "Wait." All of them looked at him expectantly. "Another IV?" She nodded. "So conceivably these medicines mix just fine in someone's vascular system." Her nod was a little more timid. "They circulate together in my blood. But they don't mix in IV tubing?"

"Right."

"That's ridiculous." Sherlock glared at John, waiting for intervention and when there was none, he looked at the doctor as if awaiting rescue.

The nurse spoke kindly, a little helplessly, addressing his concern. "I don't disagree in principle," she said. "But that's manufacturer recommendations. They study the drug under specific conditions."

Sherlock didn't budge, simply lay there, not offering an arm. When John cleared his throat in a somewhat quiet urging to cooperate, his glare got more annoyed.

John opted to end the stand-off. "It's probably got something to do with y-site compatibility, likely the pH of either or both medications, sometimes it can form some precipitate and then won't work as well at the cellular level."

Sherlock seemed to be deciding if he was going to continue his reticence.

John spoke again. "Non-negotiable, I'm afraid. And look, if we're all going to this trouble to treat you, the least you can do is cooperate. You want the drug to be effective, right?" His glance, in typical fashion, asking without words _really?_ and John responding similarly _yes._

A few minutes later, the nurse had started another IV line, not even flinching as she evaluated the old scarred antecubital left arm sites and choosing the back of his hand as the other location for the second IV. The med was scanned, the pump set, and he glared for a moment at the IV pole with now two pumps on it. The physician reviewed the treatment plan once more, answered a few questions, and told them she'd be returning in the morning. "Anything else?"

"Why." Sherlock didn't phrase it as a question.

She stood, pocketed her hands, and pleasantly considered them both. "Good question. We may never really know. Atrial fibrillation is the most common arrhythmia in the country, around the world probably. If we live long enough, most likely we will all end up with it." She addressed the personal explanation then. "For you, the smoking is a risk factor and you should quit completely and permanently." When Sherlock didn't answer except to glare at John's smile of approval at her statement, she continued again. "We'll check your thyroid levels while you're here. Sometimes even mild hyperthyroidism can exacerbate afib. And have you ever been screened for sleep apnea?"

"No."

"Snoring?" This question she directed more toward John, who tried not to balk or act surprised as he shook his head in the negative. Best he knew, he'd never heard the man snore - from upstairs and in another room. "They're probably the biggest risk factors at your age: smoking, obstructive sleep apnea, or thyroid imbalance. Cold medicines or caffeine, lesser causes. Genetics can play a part. Any family history?"

"Not that I'm aware."

"Okay." She glanced at both of them, and when no other questions or comments came, she nodded. "We'll see how things look tomorrow, all right?"

For the first few minutes after they were once more on their own, it was silent except for the rhythmic sound of the IV pumps as they worked.

"So ..." John began.

"I told you already, you could leave."

Leaning back in the chair at the bedside, he crossed one ankle over his knee as if he had no inclination to do any such thing. "Partner?"

"Ignore it. It's just easier, less questions, less worry about invading someone's privacy."

++

John could certainly recall multiple times when he'd fussed at Sherlock for breaches of privacy. His own, particularly in the bathroom, whether bathing, brushing, or other functions confined by necessity to that room, Sherlock didn't care. If he wanted in, well, in he burst. A few times, John had nearly been dragged from the shower mid-wash for something Sherlock deemed urgent. His belongings had certainly been violated, and he could still well remember the jumper that Sherlock had slashed, decimated, shredded, and then ignited in the name of science. Or in mere destructive tendencies.

Or possibly, as Sherlock had threatened, because he hated it.

His food was certainly invaded from time to time, morsels stolen from his plate, leftovers that he'd coveted and labeled _eaten_ (and in one case, destroyed for a reason no one actually knew). When they dined out, John had learned to eat the choicer bites first because Sherlock apparently seemed to think he had access rights when it came to taking them. So John ate the crunchiest chips, the tenderest steak, the most golden brown mushroom first. Because none of it was ever guaranteed to survive Sherlock's pilfering.

No boundaries.

Nothing was actually off limits. His sleep was invaded more times than he would have liked, though Sherlock'd learned that to waken Rosie was to unleash a terrible beast, one of which her misery and complaining could certainly deter that behaviour in the future.

It wasn't limited to John. To be certain, Mycroft, Greg and any or all who worked at the Met, anyone in earshot, actually any criminal in London, even Mrs. Hudson was fair game if Sherlock was able to ... discover something. And heaven help the audience when the madman decided to inappropriately disclose it. Financial, behavioral, affairs, kinks, habits, illegal substances, relationship indiscretions, criminal, or just something embarrassing and personal - it was all fair game.

++

"No boundaries, then. Good to know," John rolled his eyes.

"I thought you were going to choke, with the snoring question."

"I don't hear you anyway. That was the truth."

"Used to as a kid. Tonsillectomy fixed that."

"I had my appendix out when I was seventeen." Sherlock stared back, puzzled, not following why John was speaking. "Concussion in college. Rugby."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"As my partner, you should know."

"Shut up, John."

"Only goes one way, then, does it, this partner thing? Only for _your_ convenience?" Amused, John felt like at least Sherlock was in a good enough state to tease. "So does that apply to other areas?"

"Such as ...?"

"I dunno, favours I suppose. Maybe you could pick up cab fare one of these times. Or buy milk. Straightening up the flat." Sherlock was getting bored, so John changed angles, dug deeper. "That's what partners do, I guess. Ask for and return favours. Are you going to ask me to warm up your cold feet? Share the covers? Or something more personal, like say goodnight with a --"

Sherlock interrupted hastily, cutting off John's next word, although they both knew what it was. "I just wanted you here, and I wanted you included in the conversation. That's the extent of it."

Underneath Sherlock's words was the edge of something more - a touch of anxiety, worry, and John softened up. "No worries. I'll buy milk and all the rest. Continue to clean up after you." John pressed forward, in for a penny and all that, seizing the moment. "I'd probably warm up your feet and share the covers if you asked." The tension in the room had changed from fear to ... something else. Something intense and unspoken, not really addressed ever, since they'd skirted around it at dinner so long ago at Angelos. While John would have dearly loved to continue the conversation, he knew that here, with concerns about health overshadowing things, was not the time to delve much deeper. "You're going to be fine, you know."

There was a half-hearted shrug in response.

"Will you be able to unplug the IV pumps, take them with you into the bathroom?"

"Fairly certain I haven't lost my wits."

"Just asking ..." Sherlock was already scoping out the direction of the power cord, the path to the toilet. "I could help before I ..."

"Stop fussing."

"They'll take away your water at midnight, so ..."

"Oh god, John. How will I ever survive you not being here to state the absurdly obvious?" He exaggerated his words with an over-done dramatic gesture and seemed quite prepared to continue.

"If you swoon, I swear I'll video it." John held up his mobile, threatening and ready.

"I'm fine. Really." Although he didn't speak the _thank you_ aloud, it was visible in his expression. The tension in the room lightened.

"Can I come back in the morning?"

The swallow Sherlock gave was faintly audible, and he nodded, then managed to look John in the eye. "Please."

"I will. And I'll have my mobile." He made sure Sherlock's was on the table, pushed it closer, plugged in the charger so he wouldn't have to worry about it. "Anytime, okay?"

"Thanks."

John zipped up his coat, tucked his hands into pockets, and headed home. No one spoke to him as he left the hospital, which was fine, because his thoughts and concerns were quite tied up in that very important person he'd left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By all means, grab the extra long charging cable if you're headed to the hospital. Outlets are almost never convenient, although newer patient beds have a USB port built right into the siderail.
> 
> Yes, more meaningless trivia. You're welcome.
> 
> Everyone's atrial fibrillation story is different. Certain hospitals, providers, and areas treat afib differently, and of course almost no two patients are exactly the same either. I am always open to other stories and experiences, and the one told here is an every day occurrence at my facility.


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